“Has no one else touched your arm?”

Marcus drew in a deep breath and let it out, and finally said what he had not. “It is not an arm any longer—it is a stump.” He could not look at her but turned his gaze into the dancing fire. “And yes, someone has. My steward, Sealy Best, has. He was the surgeon’s assistant on Victorious and nursed me back to health after—” Marcus had spent so much time trying to forget those searingly painful, angry early days that it was difficult to speak of them now. “He stuck with me, like a barnacle on my hull, becoming my steward when I was eventually posted to my own command.”

“I’m glad—glad you had such care. But I will care for you as well. I’ll learn,” she promised. “I’ll learn what you like. If you let me.”

This is what he admired about her—she did not retreat in the face of difficulties. No polite sidestepping of the problem. She would look him in the eye and hold him to account. Just as she ought—if he was prepared to trust her with his heart, why could he not trust her with his body?

Because he didn’t always trust his body himself.

Because despite the passage of nearly two years since he had lost his arm, sometimes he felt it burn and ache as if the whole of it were still there. Because he woke from sleep gripping the sheets with a hand that was gone. Because the nightmare of the surgery visited him each and every time he closed his eyes.

Because he was not entirely himself. And he feared he never would be.

“Give it time,” was all he could ask.

“Dear Beech,” she whispered. “My time is entirely yours.”

He could answer only with a kiss—across the line of her shoulder, pulling fabric away with his teeth, nosing into the soft perfume of her body until he found the shoulder laces of her stays. And then her hands were over his, guiding him, aiding him in untying the laces and tugging her bodice down just enough that the tips of her breasts were bared to his gaze. And his mouth and his tongue.

He all but fell into the softness of her—he kissed each tight pink peak, delighting in the sweet scent of her skin and in the supple strength of her body as she arched her spine, her hands tangling in his hair as he sucked and tongued, moving from one tightly furled peak to the other.

“Oh Lord, Beech. I’m yours.”

He could only smile against her skin. “Not yet. Not until you marry me.”

She laughed. “And what, pray tell, will you do until then?”

“Oh, Pease Porridge, the night is young. And so are we.”




CHAPTER 10




NOW THAT TRUE ruination was at hand, Penelope had a moment of doubt—but only a moment. Loving Beech wasn’t ruination—it was fulfillment. The fulfillment of all her deepest, most secret desires. The fulfillment of every promise she had ever made to herself while relegated to sitting in ballroom chairs.

And Beech was kissing her with heat and a tenderness so kind and full of longing she had no defense against it, and she wanted none. She was empty of everything but a growing need that was fed by every taste of his smooth, clever lips.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and carried her to the bed, while he trailed hot kisses down the side of her neck, finding the secret place at the turn of her nape that made her shiver and sigh and angle her head away to give him greater access. Appeasing the low hum of want that built within, fanning the flames higher with every touch.

They sat on the bed with their legs enmeshed and their hearts entwined. His lips rounded to the hollow of her throat, and Penelope could feel her own heartbeat rise in response.

But it wasn’t enough just to be touched—she needed to touch him, too. Needed to taste the warm salt of his skin, needed to run her fingers through his long, snow-dampened hair, and tumble the unruly locks through her palms.

She kissed his dear, kind, achingly handsome face, letting her lips skate over that interesting little scar, across the high line of his cheekbones and down the strong line of his nose, taking little sips of him, as if he were hot spiced wine. As if too much at once might intoxicate her.

But she had already drunk too deep, because his clever fingers were at the four buttons at the back of her gown, and she was turning to make it easier.

Beneath the layers of chemise and stays and gown, her breasts grew full and tight with longing, and she closed her hands across the front of her bodice not just to hold her gown over her nearly-bared breasts, but to appease the needy sensation that swept under her skin.

And somehow, he understood—his hand came around to cover hers, answering her unspoken need by holding her tight. Filling her senses until every thought and feeling began and ended with his touch.

And she was falling again, or coming back. That was it. Coming back to him. To herself. To the rightness that had always been between them.

But she was falling as well, her head cradled safely against his shoulder, boneless under the press of his warmth and the safety of his embrace.

He began a slow but thorough exploration of the sensitive swath of skin below her collarbone, tracing the span and curve of her loosened neckline, and delineating the edge of her stays beneath. Back and forth, his clever fingers stroked the tips of her breasts, bringing a flood of sensation pooling beneath the heated surface of her skin. Winding her higher and higher, until she was straining toward his hand, silently urging her breast into his palm.

And then not so silently. “Beech. Please.”

He answered by delving his hand under her stays, firmly curling around her breast, until he could roll the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The sensitive peak instantly contracted into a tight bud as need spiked through her, hot and nearly painful in its bliss.

She was as taut as a drawn bow, ready to fly loose at the slightest pressure. Need—want and lust and desire—grew until it was an insistent feeling of sharply pleasurable pain driving her on. Pushing her toward the irresistible lure of the passion he loosened within her. And she wanted more. “Beech, please.”

She showed him what she wanted by pulling her arms out of the velvet sleeves and pushing her gown down to pool at her waist, so she could undo her front-lacing stays.

He looked his fill, watching from over her shoulder as she unstrung the laces. And when there was nothing between them but the thin cotton of her shift, he slowly traced the outline of her nipples through the fine layer of fabric, sending streaks of sensation stretching deep into her belly.

“So beautiful,” he murmured against her neck. “You have no idea how often I have thought of you. Years of thinking and wishing.”

Penelope had to close her eyes against the rush of heat behind her eyes. She had spent years of hoping and wishing to be so wanted. “Beech.” She would repay his years of loneliness with love. She would give him everything she had left to give. “I am yours.”

His solemn vow rumbled through him. “As am I yours.”

His pledge held an earthy urgency that fed her restlessness, making her shift and surge beneath him until his fingers closed around her nipple, tweaking it possessively before he turned her in his arms and took the peak fully into his mouth.

There was nothing but his hands and his mouth and his possession of her body. But even as he laved and teased her with his lips and tongue, he closed the curtain of the bed around them, cocooning them in the dark, before he began to divest himself of his clothing, shrugging his way out of his coat, freeing the remaining buttons of his long waistcoat, and flinging away his cravat without ever taking his mouth from her.

When he was down to his shirtsleeves, he came back to her with a look of such heat and intent, it stole the breath from her lungs. With his hand at her shoulder, he urged her back upon the bed, but he did not come over her to kiss and caress.

Instead, he raised her legs to either side of him, and began to unlace the ribbons of her slippers.

Penelope instinctively squeezed her knees together. “Beech?”

“Yes, Penelope?” he answered as he flipped up her skirts and ran his hand up her legs, over her stockings to the edge of her garters.

Penelope’s heart—as well as other equally unruly organs—began to pound. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled and frowned all at the same time in that achingly contradictory way of his. “What do you think I’m doing?”

She was no green girl, but even she wasn’t sure. “Beech, you can’t—”

He slid to his knees in front of her. “Oh, I can. I will. Gladly and effortlessly.”

Effortlessly? Surely—

Beech settled his hand upon her knee and gently nudged her leg wider. Penelope knew she ought to be shocked at the openness of her pose and the sheer carnality of his intentions, but she felt heat spread under her skin, and her head went deliriously dizzy with anticipation. She was aching for his touch.

He lowered his head to feather kisses along the inside of her thighs, and she felt herself come slowly but surely undone, inch by tantalizing inch.

Oh, God, yes, he could—Penelope nearly shrieked at the first warm, wet lick of his tongue across her sensitive flesh. “Beech!” she whispered through the hand she had cast across her mouth to keep from saying anything more.

But he did not need her encouragement. “Yes,” he agreed, and she could feel his voice vibrate through her as his kisses grew more assured and intimate still.

When his hand joined his mouth, Penelope gasped and laughed all at the same time. She had never felt so vulnerable and so absolutely adored all at the same time. She closed her eyes and gave in to the sexual languor—she was afloat, buoyed along on a current of soft, infinitely pleasant sensation that stretched endlessly into the darkness. Their flight in the night, the cozy confines of the room, the bitter cold of the night—all was forgotten. Time ceased to exert its authority upon her. She belonged to no one but herself.